


Murder Among Friends

by sexybee



Category: Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-22
Updated: 2005-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:30:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1641554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexybee/pseuds/sexybee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wolfe and Archie attempt to solve a tricky case of three suspects and no motives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murder Among Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Rhi

The Chesterton-Best case was not one of Nero Wolfe's favorite moments. He later regretted having anything to do with the case, calling it a "contemptible, sordid affair."

In fact it was only notable for three things: It was one of the most quickly solved cases he ever took on; it coincided with one of my luckiest poker nights ever; and the final lead to the solution was provided by none other than Fritz.

The facts of the matter as I'd received them from Mrs. Best that morning, red-eyed but sophisticated in a black wool dress that made my pulse race more than any grieving widow should be allowed, were simple.

The Chesterton-Best Corporation produced small appliances for half the Atlantic seaboard, and, this past weekend, the two founding families and major stockholders had been staying together at the Chesterton family home. To the extent anyone was saying anything to the press, it had been an amiable if hardly wild party. Mr. and Mrs. Best had been there, as had Mrs. Chesterton's daughter, Nina. Friday and Saturday had passed normally enough, by all accounts.

On Saturday night the members of the house party had been woken by a shot. Upon investigation they found wild disarray in the front hallway and foyer, several missing paintings and statues, and Harrison Best in the front parlor, shot in the stomach. He'd died on the way to the hospital. The police were getting nowhere trying to find the thief.

As for the people involved, according to my good pal Lon Cohen over at the Gazette, they were a lot more interesting than what appeared to be an open and shut case of burglary. The late Mr. Harrison Best represented a rare breed--someone who knew his talents well enough to know that he was best employed outside of the family business. He was a Viking enthusiast, contributing articles to the local papers, lecturing at local schools, and flying off periodically to participate in digs for moldy bits of bone and carved wood. While on one of these digs he had stumbled across the very-much-not- moldy-at-all Lydia Throape, an undergraduate assistant in archaeology who could have served as the figurehead on a longship anytime. Wedding bells had rung faster than you can say "Eric the Red," and despite the age difference, the couple had seemed completely happy.

Greg Chesterton wasn't really a Chesterton at all--his wife was the one who'd inherited the name and the pots of money that came with it. But when he, a former salesman, managed to hook his biggest sale ever he took her name to show just how committed he was. Local opinion was that he'd found a good thing and was smart enough to know how to hang on to it. Everyone agreed that Adrienne Chesterton was easy on the eyes, but she had a frosty nature and a sharp tongue that cooled her admirers' fervor. She kept a much more direct eye on her investment than Best did, serving as chairperson for several internal committees at Chesterton-Best and heading the Board of Directors. Her daughter by her first husband, Nina Frost (apparently husband number one had not been as committed to the Chesterton name as Greg), appeared regularly in the society pages and gossip rags. She'd been at the heart of more than one scandal and always seemed to have a different man on her arm for every picture. She had her mother's looks and her stepfather's eye for the main chance.

Lydia Best had appeared that Thursday morning in February because she was convinced that the police were wrong. "I do _not_ believe that a burglar shot my husband. One of those people in that house killed him, and I want you to find him."

He had woken her, she said, sometime late Friday night or early Saturday morning coming back to bed, and told her he'd just seen something unsettling. When she pressed, he wouldn't mention anything specific, only that he was unsure whether he should say anything or not. The police, naturally, assumed that he had noticed the thief casing the place before planning his heist, but she disagreed and had a five thousand dollar retainer to back it up.

Certainly, if she was correct, the list of suspects was rather limited. While it was possible someone with a grudge had taken the trouble to drive out to Westchester and stalk him, Mrs. Best assured us that archaeologists were more into academic sniping than the kind involving real guns. So Wolfe's theory, and her own, was that he'd seen one of the others in the house that night doing something they shouldn't, confronted them about it, and then been killed and the crime staged to look like a burglary. But which of the three would have a secret worth killing to protect? And what could it be?

The answer to that, of course, is that there are plenty of things people would be willing to kill to keep secret, and while Wolfe read, I amused myself by thinking up a couple dozen reasons and trying them on against what I knew of the three of them. When six rolled around I'd just about convinced myself that Mrs. Best had been having a clandestine affair with her Viking-esque butler and, suspecting that the police suspected her, decided to throw everyone off track by coming to us. As Wolfe folded down the corner to mark his page and stood up for dinner, I tossed that one out as well on the grounds that I doubted we'd be paid for collaring our own client as a murderess.

After a dinner of grilled salmon with apricots and rice pilaf cooked, as usual, to perfection by Fritz Brenner, chef extraordinaire cum butler for the household, the suspects filed in, and I filled my notebook with sixteen pages of Wolfe showcasing his fishing skills and not one single substantial lead. If any of these people had secrets worth murder they were better at hiding them than most of the specimens we interviewed.

For the most obvious motives, they would take double-checking, but they looked right out: Mrs. Chesterton admitted that she knew her husband strayed from time to time, but so long as he was discreet with his affairs, she was content. Mr. Chesterton, for his part, seemed devoted to making sure his wife never had need to stray herself. We would naturally need to look further into the assets of the corporation than a few preliminary phone calls to various banks and business contacts, but if there was any financial hanky panky going on, it was staying as discreet as Greg Chesterton's flings.

As for the daughter, Nina, while she was certainly of both the looks and temperament for any number of scandalous flings, that just made it all the more unlikely that she would kill to prevent any particular one from being uncovered.

I'll give you a sample of the kind of digging going on that night:

Wolfe: Have you any suitors currently, Miss Frost?

N. Frost: (coyly) Why, Mr. Wolfe, this is all so sudden! But surely if you wanted to ask my parents' permission you could have thought of a better excuse than murder.

Wolfe: Do not waste my time being disingenuous, Miss Frost.

N. Frost: See, it would never work. I would never be able to tell what you were saying, so I'd never know when you were being genuinely grumpy and when you were just teasing.

G. Chesterton: Look, is there some reason you need to know about my stepdaughter's relationships? While I don't necessarily approve of all of them, I highly doubt that one of her boyfriends decided to support her expensive tastes through burglary.

N. Frost: I don't know. It might be a kick to date a thief. He could climb up the side of the building and sneak in my windows at night.

A. Chesterton: Nina. Please don't speak so frivolously. Someone might believe you one day.

Now, I fully admit that my dim view of the matter might be because Nina was flirting with Wolfe instead of myself, but while a human interest writer might have found the snappy banter fascinating, if there were any clues to Harrison Best's death or what he saw that Friday night, I wasn't seeing them.

They had all three admitted to getting up Saturday night to get a drink of water or use the bathroom. Furthermore Mr. and Mrs. Chesterton had separate bedrooms, so we lacked even that dubious alibi. Quite frankly it was beginning to look like we'd need to draw straws to pick our murderer.

It was as empty a series of wells as we'd ever dug before. Oh, sure, there were still avenues to investigate--perhaps Greg Chesterton had a previous wife he'd forgotten to divorce. Maybe one of his affairs was refusing to stay discreet. Possibly Mrs. Chesterton had a gambling problem and was selling off her glittering diamond necklaces to pay for the ponies. Hell, maybe Nina was a raving dope fiend and thought stealing antique knickknacks and shooting houseguests was all a kick.

In any event, it was with a more pronounced than usual sense of escape that I headed over to Saul's place that night for a few rounds of poker.

The weekly poker night was something of a ritual for Saul, Lon, and me. Not that it didn't get interrupted or even superceded often enough--we were busy guys, and I'm the first to admit that I have done more than my fair share of bowing out due to the burdens of minding an eccentric genius. But we had managed to squeeze in enough games over the years that it qualified as a tradition. This particular night, I was, rarely enough, on fire, my stack of chips even beating out Saul's.

"Kings over eights, gentlemen." I spread my cards on the polished maple top and grinned.

Lon groaned from across the table, shoving his cards across to Saul, who was dealing. "One of these days, I'm going to wise up and stop playing poker with detectives. They cheat."

My grin grew broader as I scooped up the pot. "I resent that, Lon, I really do. Don't you resent that, Saul?"

Saul shuffled the deck in his hand and dealt out five cards, flipping them over to reveal the four aces and a joker. "Oh, absolutely," he agreed, absently fanning the deck in one hand like an Atlantic City casino jockey on his day off. Lon shook his head. I let out a low whistle of appreciation and added cardsharking to Saul's long list of skills. I have said it before and I will say it again, should I ever find myself buried up to my neck in Indian country with honey on my forehead and the great-grandaddy of all fireant mounds scuttling my way, I'd trade the sight of Saul on the horizon for half a dozen anteaters. He may not be a genius, but that's only because he's not eccentric enough to qualify.

Lon slicked his hair back with one hand and scraped back his chair. "That's it. You've drained enough cash from me for one day."

I chuckled. "Come on. Just one more round? Who knows, your luck might turn."

Lon turned to Saul. "Can you believe this guy? First he has the nerve to pump me for information all morning long, without so much as a publishable quote, and then he shakes me down for my loose change tonight."

"Yeah, well, Mr. Wolfe has tried to raise him right, but what else can you expect from our Archie?" Saul and I stood up too as Lon walked over to the coat rack for his jacket and hat.

" _Our_ Archie? I claim no part of that bullying shakedown artist. As far as I'm concerned, you can keep him."

I smirked and leaned back against the bookshelf, idly fingering a dark blue leather-bound edition of _The Three Musketeers_. "And to think I was thinking of using part of my newly acquired funds to purchase two inch-thick rare steaks and a couple of highballs." I sighed disconsolately and pushed the book back flush with its fellows. "I guess I'll have to take Saul instead."

Lon snorted. "You don't fool me. You already owe me that steak dinner for all the information I provided today." He pointed at me. "And don't think about weaseling out of it either."

I affected an injured tone. "Weaseling. Did you hear that, Saul? Weaseling, indeed. There is nothing the least bit weasel-like about myself, unless one counts the proximity of your pointy little face."

Lon raised his own eyebrows at me and attempted to look all knowing, but he hadn't nearly as much practice at it as Wolfe had. "Ah, I understand it now. You've finally met a woman who doesn't fall panting at your feet, and you're taking out your temper on me."

Saul joined in on the ribbing. "Goodness. I wasn't sure such a female existed. That must be a blow to your pride, indeed."

I gave them a Bronx cheer. "I'll be sure to remember this show of comradely support next time one of my _numerous_ lovely lady friends suggests that she might have a friend who'd be interested in double dating."

Saul shook his head. "Oh, no," he said. "I know better than to give you a shot at monopolizing _two_ women's attention for the night." He added, "The only reason you date one woman at a time now is that you only have arms enough to dance with one."

I waved my hand at the two jokers and collected my hat and coat. Any good gambler knows to quit when he's ahead, and with both Lon and Saul ganging up on me, I decided retreat was the better part of valor.

After my usual eight hours of sleep, a quiet morning in which no investigative work was mentioned at all, and a lunch of Fritz's corn fritters with Virginia ham and thyme honey, I felt a renewed sense of enthusiasm for the case, which lasted all the way until five minutes after I heard Wolfe's plan of action.

"You want to send Saul, Fred, and Orrie checking pawnshops and dumpsters, looking for the missing valuables?" I snorted. "I realize this is a doozy of a case, but you're supposed to be a genius. Can't you think of a better crack to pry open than that? You know Cramer's probably had his men looking into that for the last week."

He grunted. "Confound it, do you think I don't know that? But these people are not professional thieves. They do not have contacts with fences or smugglers. They have taken these items to provide a motive and obscure their own. Very well. Now they must dispose of them. Inspector Cramer's men are hindered by their belief that this is an ordinary burglary by an unknown thief."

"Yeah, that's all well and good, but what's to keep them from just stashing the stuff until this has all blown over?"

Wolfe tilted his head forward a quarter of an inch, which passed as a nod for him. "That is certainly true. But the risk that the items may be discovered increases with time, and, with it, the difficulty of effecting an adequate explanation for their possession."

I shrugged. I could see his point, but after six days with our three suspects having been allowed free run of the city, this made searching for a needle in a haystack seem like a cakewalk. "And in the meantime, I do what?"

"You will be visiting the Chesterton-Best Corporation headquarters. You will interview Mr. and Mrs. Chesterton's secretaries, their staff, the Directors if any can be found. I want to know if there is anything of a suspicious nature there. When you have finished, visit Miss Frost's apartment. There is something out there for us to find. Go and find it."

Go and find it indeed. He could say that because he wasn't the one who was going to have to go do the finding.

Fritz came in with the bottle of beer and glass on a tray and sat it on Wolfe's desk. Wolfe poured and took a first swallow, carefully licking the foam from his top lip. "Thank you, Fritz," he said.

"Will we be having company again tonight, sir?"

"No. Bah, what is the profit in dragging them over here again for useless speculation? I need a motive, or failing that, a stratagem for forcing one of them into revealing it." He scowled at the bottle cap on his desk.

Fritz did not seem overly concerned. He, like myself, has watched Wolfe pull too many rabbits out of too many goddamned hats over the years to get upset over the lack of a lead at this point in the game. "Very well." He placed the empty bottle back on the tray. "I regret to say it of anyone, but I am quite pleased that that young woman will not be coming back tonight. She is _not_ a lady."

Fritz's voice lacked his characteristic softness when dealing with women. "She try to flirt with you, too?" I asked.

He sniffed. " _That_ one has no respect for taboo," he announced and departed to the kitchen.

I laughed and swiveled to address some comment to Wolfe about Fritz's antiquated classist tendencies, but checked the words at the sight presenting itself to my eyes. Behind his desk, Wolfe's eyes were slitted and his lips were pushing slowly in and out. It was the expression he got when he was solving a case. Every time it happens I try to tell myself that it shouldn't excite me anymore, but I can't help my heart speeding up just a bit watching a genius at work.

With his eyes still closed Wolfe asked, "How quickly can Saul be here?"

I considered. "He didn't mention any cases last night, so assuming he's not tied up with anything else, I'd say half an hour or less."

He grunted his pleased grunt and took another swallow of beer. "Get him. And then your notebook, Archie. We will need Mrs. Best's assistance to insure that Miss Frost remains away from her apartment for a sufficient length of time."

I grinned to myself and spun around, reaching for the phone, not even bothering to ask if he still wanted Fred and Orrie for a round of dumpster diving.

Twenty minutes later Saul was slouched in one of the yellow upholstered chairs, rolling his cap between his hands as Wolfe briefed us on the task. "So, what exactly are we looking for?"

"I highly doubt he will have been so foolish as to write any letters, but, considering the circumstances, one is forced to conclude he is a fool. Most likely photographs of a compromising nature, or possibly a diary. She strikes me as the sort to think it amusing to record her dalliances."

Letters, pictures, a diary. All small things that can be easily hidden. One thing about Wolfe, he didn't believe in setting you out for an easy task when a harder one would do. It also said something about our skills that he was entirely confident that we would find what we were looking for. Over the years, Wolfe has sent me out for pretty much damn near everything, and I have usually managed to bring it all back. With both Saul and myself on the case, I am not saying there was nothing so well hidden we couldn't find it, but between my pride and his skills it would take a pretty determined effort to foil us.

"From anyone in particular, or are we taking all comers?" I asked, double-checking that the Marley was snug in its shoulder holster.

Wolfe's eyebrows were smug, but his voice was tinged with disgust. "You will recognize it when you see it." I sighed and reflected that one of these days Wolfe will stop being mysterious just for the hell of it. Knowing him, though, this will likely be right after he sells the orchids and takes up a diet of salads and weak tea.

The lock on Nina Frost's apartment yielded easily to gentle probing from Saul's picks, revealing a highly feminine, highly expensive apartment. It was not the nicest I have been in--a certain penthouse apartment where I have spent many lazy Sunday afternoons takes that billing--but it was certainly classy enough to give me a momentary twinge of fear that a maid might be tucked up behind one of the heavily brocaded curtains serving as doors to the living room.

A quick search revealed that the place was empty, though, and Saul and I split up to case the rooms. The bedroom and the living room were the best bets for our purposes. I took the bedroom, which was all cream satin that would go very nicely with Nina Frost's creamy skin. The bed was unmade, and makeup and perfume bottles littered the dressing table. I started there.

An hour later I was getting frustrated. Saul had poked his head in for a look, whistled appreciatively at the dcor, and gone back to searching. I could definitively say that there was nothing interesting in the nightstand, on the dressing table, or, in that time-honored old tradition, under the bed. There were still a shelf full of books and knickknacks, a trunk at the foot of the bed, and an oversized dresser to search. I was standing in the closet poking through a rack full of clingy knit dresses, silk blouses, and wool skirts. I shoved aside a blue taffeta number and paused. There was a rack full of purses in leather and cotton against the back wall. On the third one I hit pay dirt. They were candid pictures, obviously taken when both parties were unaware. Their arms were around each other in the body language of lovers. In a few they were kissing. In my hands I knew I held a motive for murder.

It was a rather more irritable group that gathered in Wolfe's office that Saturday afternoon. Adrienne Chesterton's mouth was a thin line, and her eyes were colder than ever. Greg Chesterton didn't bother to say thank you this time when I took his coat. Nina tried to flirt a little with me and seemed puzzled when I didn't respond. Inspector Cramer had arrived first and was sitting to one side chomping a cigar, while Lydia Best was in the red leather chair again. This time there was no offer of refreshments, and despite a few inquiring looks at Cramer, no introductions.

Wolfe went straight to the heart of the matter. "Thank you all for coming here again today. Two days ago I brought you here to discuss the death of Harrison Best. Today I have gathered you again because I am ready to announce that I know who killed him."

A small gasp escaped Nina, and the Chestertons both dropped their jaws slightly in shock. Cramer grunted something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "show off," but I valiantly ignored it.

Adrienne Chesterton asked, "Who..?"

Wolfe ignored her. "But first, Mr. Chesterton, you previously stated that you have had affairs in the past. May I ask whom your current lover is?"

He blanched and recoiled. "I really don't see where that's any of your business. This line of questioning is doing nothing but upsetting my wife. It has nothing to do with Harrison's death."

"It has everything to do with it. You see, three days ago when Mrs. Best came to me, she was convinced her husband's death was deliberate murder--by one of you." Wolfe paused to glare at them. "I quickly surmised that she was correct, and that furthermore, his death was the result of witnessing something Friday night that made him dangerous to someone."

Mrs. Chesterton sniffed. "That's preposterous! What possible reason could any of us have for killing Harrison? We were old friends."

"That was the very same question I asked myself. Usually motive, or possible motives, are easy to find in a murder case. But everywhere I turned in this I was thwarted. Every possible motive I raised was dismissed out of hand. There was nothing for me to investigate. It was very odd.

"And so I began to consider the case in light of this very peculiarity. And I realized that, indeed, the oddness of the situation could only be explained if two or more of you were in collusion to obscure the motive from me. So I began to reflect, not about the facts of the crime, but about the personalities involved: A wife who refuses to see anything other than what she wants to see, a husband with a weakness for pretty women. And there is, conveniently enough on the scene, a very beautiful young woman. The kind who sticks at nothing, who finds a thrill in breaking rules."

Greg Chesterton's face drained of color with Wolfe's last sentences. He looked like he might be sick there on the Bokhara rug. Nina, two red patches high on her cheekbones, avoided everyone's gaze.

"You've been having an affair with your stepdaughter, haven't you, Mr. Chesterton? I daresay the thrill of the taboo excited you both; you are a man who likes a challenge. Your trysts were relatively safe when you kept them confined to weekend hotels or visits to your apartment, Miss Frost. But then came this weekend, and one or both of you decided the temptation was too great to pass up. You and your wife have separate bedrooms, Mr. Chesterton; she'd never realize if you left your bed for an hour or two.

"But this time the risk failed. You were caught together in some way that left no possibility of denial. You asked Mr. Best to keep quiet about it, but you knew he was troubled and would most likely tell your wife. She had been willing to look the other way, but not for something like this. There would be scandal, divorce; you would be ruined. There was only thing to be done--somehow you must keep Harrison Best from talking.

"And so, you asked him to meet you Saturday night. You must have staged the crime scene in advance. And you sat there and waited with the gun for him to appear, waited to kill the one man who could spell your disaster."

Lydia Best's eyes were closed tight as Wolfe finished his accusation, and she shook slightly in her chair. I wished I could reach out and comfort her, but I wasn't taking my eyes off of Greg. He had composed himself and was making a valiant attempt to look incredulous.

"This is the most ridiculous story I have ever heard in my life. Nina is my stepdaughter, and while I love her very much, it is as a parent loves a child, nothing more." He turned to his wife. "Come, dear, we're leaving. I don't care to sit here and listen to this anymore."

"Sit down, Mr. Chesterton," Wolfe snapped. When he mulishly protested, Cramer rose and moved to block his path, and I stepped around the desk to strong-arm him back into the chair.

"Sorry, but the party's not quite done yet," I said.

"You deny that you and Miss Frost are lovers?" Wolfe looked at Chesterton, who glared at him, and then glanced at Nina. "And you, Miss Frost? Do you deny it as well?" Her yes started out a little shaky, but firmed up quickly. "Very well. Then how do you explain these?" Wolfe pulled a stack of photographs from underneath the desk blotter. I knew very well what they were, of course, since I'd been the one to find them yesterday. They showed Greg Chesterton and Nina Frost embracing and kissing, their arms wound tight around one another. The photos had clearly been taken over the course of several occasions.

Nina stopped breathing. "Where did you find those?"

Wolfe ignored her question. "Do you still deny it, Miss Frost? Mr. Chesterton?"

Greg shuddered and hunched in on himself. Nina bit her lip and twisted to face her mother. "I--I'm sorry," she breathed. "I never meant to hurt you."

Mrs. Chesterton's face had slowly turned whiter and tighter as the minutes passed until

Cramer unclipped his handcuffs from his belt and began to fasten them to Chesterton's wrists. Nina wobbled up out of the chair. "Am I going to be arrested too?" she asked quietly, all the flirt drained out of her.

"It's possible," Wolfe said, "for obstruction of justice, if not accessory after the fact." She pressed pink-nailed fingertips to her mouth, and he eyed her warily, obviously hoping that she wouldn't faint or turn hysterical on him.

"Come with me," Cramer said, and led her and the saggingly compliant Chesterton out the door. I nipped around to open the front door and usher them out to the squad car parked in front of the curb.

When I came back in, Lydia Best was sipping a glass of whiskey and soda. "Thank you," she said--whether for the drink or the scene she'd just witnessed, I wasn't sure. After the whiskey was gone she drew out her checkbook. "Harrison and Lydia went back for years. When she married Greg he disapproved. But she loved him, so he never would have dreamed of trying to dissuade her."

"Your husband was an admirable man, then, to respect her decision."

She smiled wanly, signed the check and picked up her purse, rising. "Well, like he always said, that's what friends do."

I'm not sure how much Mrs. Chesterton had to do with it, but the next day the morning papers included articles detailing how Greg Chesterton had confessed to shooting and killing his houseguest and friend in a faked robbery and insurance swindle gone wrong. Lon Cohen rang me up and complained for twenty minutes about not giving him the exclusive on the case until I finally shut him up by arranging to meet him for that steak dinner I owed him. And the next Thursday night, my lucky streak at the poker table ended.

Lon crowed triumphantly as Saul divvied up my chips between the two of them. "You sure are feeling generous tonight, Archie. First dinner and now you're donating all your spare cash to me. That's sweet."

"He does have his occasional good points," Saul agreed mildly.

I shoved my hands into my empty pockets, grinned, and shrugged. "Hey," I said, "that's what friends do."


End file.
